Leap of Faith: the 57th Hunger Games SYOT
by BloodedInk
Summary: Endless ocean spans throughout this year's arena. One would be a fool to believe, even for a second, that these furious waves are devoid of dangers. However, beyond the ominous black water lies the promise of safety, food, and warmth. One must decide if the lure is enough to brave the doom that hangs heavy over the ocean... and one's choice could kill or save them. *OPEN SYOT*
1. The Beginning (Prologue)

**I**

**PROLOGUE**

_**"**The glittering sea of eyes, judging as the jury and executioner, follow me as I march toward the ivory doors that will lead me to greatness… or certain death.**"**_

* * *

"Miss Romaine? The President is ready to see you now."

Ah, Miss Romaine. I haven't been called that in a long time. It's always _Augusta, you royal failure _or _Augusta, you suckup_ or something along those lines. My career in the Capitol has been less than ideal. You'd think designing the grandest, bloodiest spectacle ever conceived by man's deranged minds would gain you some respect, but apparently, I haven't mastered the fickle and fine art of social standing yet.

My eyes rise from the floor, meeting the crisp and attentive stare of the attendant. She's dressed primly, formal and authoritative, her forehead stretched back by her bun of blonde hair. Her complexion, as pale and severe as white flame, is riddled with shadows, the planes of her features obscured by the shades cast in the room. She nods concisely toward me and turns heel, strutting off down the hallway without waiting for me to follow.

I nearly trip over myself rising out of my chair. The papers cradled in my arms ruffle dangerously, threatening to spill, but I clutch them closer to my chest and make off to match strides with the attendant. The woman herself, the eerie sound of the piano permeating through the chamber like an elusive ghost, the thirty-foot ceilings, the murals capturing eagles in flight and deer in frolic… everything about this corridor adjacent to the single most important room in all of Panem was meticulously designed to make me feel small and insignificant… and it's sure as hell working.

It's been nineteen years since I've started my work here in the Capitol and it never ceases to amaze me. Even this walkway, bridging between the sterile, vigorous energy plant and the mansion holding the Man himself is strung with decor fit for kings.

And in a way, it _is_ made for a king. The most dangerous, lavish king of them all.

"Alright then, ground rules," I nearly jump out of my skin. The attendant turns to face me, her icy spires of eyes staring into my brown ones with the corners of her lips pulled taut over her teeth in a contempt sneer. No, maybe sneer wasn't the word for it. Resting bitch face was more like it.

"When we enter the manor, I can accompany you no further. The presidential quarters shall be obvious enough, I needn't describe them to you. While you are in the presence of the President and his advisors, you are to be on your best behavior. You touch nothing for it is all duly expensive. You shall keep a cool temper," she instructed. Her voice was affected with the harsh accent of a native Capitol citizen; her vowels were shortly clipped and the ends of her sentences raised as if she were asking me questions.

A vague part of me was offended. These rules were something you told your less than idyllic child, not a grown woman with plans in her arms that would construct listless killing machines. The other, much more rational part of me was intimidated.

"Yes, ma'am. Noted."

The attendant seemed pacified. Her sneer eased a tad. She extended a hand to me, long manicured nails that were more talons and all. I gingerly took it, shaking her hand sheepishly.

"My name is Aquila. If you need anything during your stay, Miss Romaine, call for me."

I open my mouth- the customary _please, call me Augusta _on my tongue- but the words die as soon as they rise to my lips. It's been a while since I have been called a title of respect. I like it. I guess the Capitol draws out the inner narcissist in everyone.

"Sure, Aquila. Would it be presumptuous to ask-"

But Aquila was gone. Disappeared from near plain sight and retreated into the shadows that bordered everything in this place.

Formidable. Just like everything else.

The doors of the presidential mansion stand before me, imposing and ominous in their oaken glory. They reach all the way up to the ceiling, absolutely gargantuan, and the twin knobs are sturdy gold. They tower above me in mocking unapproachability. _Go on, then. Open us. Make a fool of yourself and then get beheaded with the rest, Augusta, you worthless poser._

Nothing left to do, then.

I take a deep breath to steel myself. One, two, three…

The doors groan open, revealing to me the grandeur of the building every little Capitol girl dreams about fondly. The presidential mansion.

The chillingly beautiful, subdued tones of a harp waft about this place. Gold statues of horses are stationed on either side of a plush velvet carpet unraveling toward-

Aquila was right about the entrance being unmissable. Directly across from me stand twin ivory doors. The emblem of Panem is etched into their white faces regally and unmistakably and half a dozen Peacekeepers are stationed on either side, standing attentively with tense legs, backs, shoulders, just daring someone to intrude.

I walk toward them with a fierce determination kindling in my chest. If I stand to admire the scenery for too long, I'll lose my edge. There will be plenty of time for gawking later. Assuming the President likes what I have and doesn't kill me.

As I arrive, the densely scattered sentries tighten their haphazard formation. The squad captain, marked by the medals glittering on his arm, steps forward to block me.

"Identification."

"Yes, right," I curse myself when my shaking fingers fumble with my papers as I struggle to take out my Gamemaker's Card. A few spill to the ground, scattering before my feet and flying every which way.

Nice. So much for looking professional.

I'm near certain the Peacekeeper is laughing at me as I scramble after my data. Not a single sentry moves a muscle until I've regained my papers, posture, and Gamemaker's Card. I hand it to the squad captain and fight to steady my traitorous heartbeat as he studies my info and the grainy picture in the top left corner. After what I assume is an eternity, he hands it back to me.

"Welcome to the presidential mansion, Head Gamemaker Romaine."

I give him a brief nod as his squad parts to give me a clear path of entry. The glittering sea of eyes, judging as the jury and executioner, follow me as I march toward the ivory doors that will lead me to greatness… or certain death.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for stopping by! I am ECSTATIC to begin this SYOT. Tribute forms can be found on my bio, and I will soon be posting a list of District vacancies on my bio as well.**

**Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!**


	2. The Presidential Manor

**II**

**PROLOGUE CONTINUED**

_"Maybe, just maybe, the President- the most feared and empowered man in all of Panem- was like us. Like me. Just a normal person who hides behind a facade of power and materialism."_

* * *

When I was homeschooled by my late mother, she would sometimes read me old history books telling of the nations of the past. Some stories would tell of times of grandeur, some of tragedy, and more still of primal human urges that fueled wars even bloodier than the Rebellion fifty-seven years ago. One of the old landmasses she read to me about was a barren place named Antarctica. She said that it was so cold there that no one could ever hope of colonizing it. It was ice and glacier as far as the eye could see and longer.

I imagine that President Pollux's drawing room was as cold as Antarctica must've been.

Goosebumps begin to rise on my forearms as I wander aimlessly through uncountable rows of bookshelves. Many of the books are stacked precariously against overwhelmed paperweights, and many have fallen to the floor and opened, displaying their sepia pages and worlds made in ink. There seemed to be no method to the madness, either… or at least any that I could tell. The names of the authors were nowhere near in alphabetical order, the glossy covers of cherished novels were scratched and scuffed, and the shelves themselves, although ornate and pristine, didn't match at all. It never crossed my mind that the President might've been _this_ disorganized, if disorganized at all. Some foolish, childish part of my conscience eased guard as I observed the ledges overflowing with loose papers and crumpled drafts of ideas long gone, no uniform in sight. Maybe, just maybe, the President- the most feared and empowered man in all of Panem- was like us. Like me. Just a normal person who hides behind a facade of power and materialism.

"It's not every day that I receive visitors," a deep, amused lilt rang out behind me. "And when I do, I must say I've never seen one sift through my bookshelves."

Icy, long-nailed fingers scrape down my spine as the President-_the President of Panem_\- lumbers towards me. His gait is uneven and awkward, undoubtedly from his prosthetic foot obtained in a battle with a fellow candidate for presidency.

His somewhat comical stance doesn't make him even a bit less intimidating, though.

President Pollux' platinum blonde hair is slicked back so sharply it makes the corners of the skin on his forehead stretch. His eyes- so blue they appear gray- stare ahead at some fixed point in the distance that only he can see. If I didn't know better, he might've even been Aquila's father. He's adorned in a stuffy, pristine black tuxedo with a tiny little golden crown pin on his lapel.

Many prissy Capitol girls would have commented on his pin. They might've said things like, "_oh, how cute!_" or "_could I get one for my dress?_" but I, raised to be ever perceptive and almost poetic by my father, knew the true symbolism behind it. He is in power. He is the dictator of his future and ours. This man had an aura of power about him that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

"I a-apologize, President Pollux," I immediately dropped into my well-practiced curtsy.

"No need to apologize," the President's shoulder brushed mine as he stood on his heels to pull a book from the top of the bookshelf I was examining. He blew across the cover and a thin layer of dust whipped into the air, tearing a cough from my chest. "Yes, have you read this book? I think you might find it interesting. I recall how much you loved pre-Panem history when you were but a child."

He shoves the book into my hand, and on a reflex, my fingers close around it. The book is old and with so many creases in its cover that I fear turning it around would break the binding. When the President turns his back to me to study his watch, I delicately place the book back where it came from.

"Well, please do sit. I was under the impression we would be discussing this year's arena."

"I would, sir," I hate how quiet and soft my voice is compared to his. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being inferior. _Which happens a lot. _"Although I don't see any chairs."

"Ah, right you are." President Pollux's lips tugged down into a frown. He snapped his fingers, and the loud, crisp sound ricocheted off the walls.

A young woman clad in pure white robes steps out of the shadows from behind me. Upon a quick, subconscious observation, everything about her screams servitude: from her simple servant's braid to her plain, makeup-free face.

As a Head Gamemaker, I've visited the Districts before. I liked to take inspiration from the subtleties of their world- the gentle crash of waves in District Four, the everpresent hum of electricity in District Eight- and wearing no makeup there is the norm. In the Capitol, however, makeup was almost as essential as food and water.

"Don't mind the Avox," President Pollux sends me a small smile before turning to gesture at the servant. "Go fetch me two chairs."

The Avox nods hurriedly and disappears the way she came, in shadows. I stand on the balls of my heels and crane my neck after her, bewildered that a person could move so noiselessly... so unnoticeable.

"She's a peculiar Avox, that one," President Pollux murmurs. "Her story is most unique."

"How so?"

"She's from the Capitol."

"_What_?" Avoxes are _never_ from the Capitol. Never. Avoxes are moronic individuals who have rebelled against the Presidency and are forced into mute servitude for their crimes. No citizen of the Capitol in their right mind would ever consider such a thing. We're spoiled from the day we're born to the day we die. There's simply no reason to rebel.

"Indeed. Her name was once Aurora Whicker."

Not a second later, the Avox in question returns with two folding chairs. She unfolds them, reaches into her robe pocket, and unfurls a velvet blanket over the President's seat. Of course. The President deserves only the best of comforts.

"That will be all. You're dismissed."

She gives him a quick nod, curtsies, and hurries off.

"Now, let's discuss your plans for this year. See if they are… worth Panem's time."

I ease myself down into a chair, half because the President gestured towards it and half because I feel that my knees will buckle from my trembling. I blow a strand of my shocking pink hair out of my eyes and hand over my collection of papers.

"The arena this year will be very costly, but the budget will not be breached in vain. My team and I have worked tirelessly to prepare a show that will be unforgettable."

The President doesn't answer and instead continues to flip through my papers with an impeccable, terrifying deadpan. I take a deep inhale and continue.

"Endless ocean will span throughout a giant, circular arena. The tributes will be launched on a center island about seven miles in the circumference. I'll call it Bloodbath Island," my heart flutters as the President gives me a tiny nod. "Rock spires will surround Bloodbath Island to serve as weapons for those unfortunate enough to not acquire anything from the Cornucopia. Furious waves strong enough to take down even the strongest swimmers will serve to keep the weak in until they can build some sort of raft, allowing the Careers more time to hunt them down. Far away from the Bloodbath island will be four barrier islands containing necessities that tributes need in the arena: food, shelter, fresh water."

"How will we get them together for the big show?" The President finally looks up from the papers.

A sadistic smile cuts across my face, surprising even me in its ferocity. "That's where the new mutts come in, sir."


	3. The Beast

**III**

**THE BEAST**

**"**_Great work, Mrs. Calliope!" the Gamemakers cheered in tandem. Relief flooded her in waves as she began to swim upward toward the hatch._

_She never made it._**"**

* * *

Theodora had never been more nervous in her entire life.

Sure, worrying about if the dinner guests noticed if the food was slightly overcooked was a close second, and so was that time she thought she left her toaster-microwave on, and that time as a kid when she broke her mother's favorite vase, or maybe when she thought she couldn't find her sunglasses when in reality they were on her head, or maybe-

Yeah, needless to say, Theodora was a nervous person.

So she had no idea what in God's green earth she was doing here.

In the Muttations Laboratory. Five feet across from a creature that kill her with one snap of its jaws.

She had begun work here less than a month ago, hired as a housekeeper and chemical dispenser. She wasn't nervous around chemicals, no, it was just those tiny little domestic _oopsies _that set her off the edge. The things that would affect the only thing that really mattered… what everyone thought of her. I mean, who wants to hang out with a klutz who forgets about that loose bottom step on the stairwell, or the woman who loses her super expensive designer rings pretty much constantly? No one. The mere thought.

On a hot, humid summer morning, Theodora Calliope began life as usual. She struggled into those high heels she _had _to have (even though they were a size too small), her best lacy frock with the cute little snowflake patterns that always got her compliments on the street, and sprayed a copious amount of hair product into her bright green curls. She reached over to put her sparkly pink contacts in her eye, meticulously applied her eyebrow extensions, and clipped on the fifty carat diamond earrings her darling husband George bought her last month to apologize for his affair with that little _slut_ Herminia (that woman wasn't even _attractive_).

She made her queen-sized bed, fluffed the goosefeather pillows, and planted a quick peck on George Calliope's wrinkled forehead. He gave a small grunt, swatted her away, and rolled over, spilling his drool everywhere.

_Disgusting man. I swear, if the money ever runs out, I'm gone faster than he can blink. _

She hobbled downstairs, petting her purebred poodles as they ran up to greet her, cooing at them in farewell as she hopped out the door in her five inch heels. Her car gleamed at her from the driveway, its lean, cherry red, aerodynamic body glittering there as a trophy for all the world to see. The savages squalloring around in District 3 sure knew how to make a good car. If only they would learn the basics of hygiene, too.

She waved at Mrs. Ursula across the street, stooped inside, and drove off toward the Laboratory. The candy-colored buildings of the Capitol flew past her window in a spritely blur, and the pedestrians strutting down the flower-lined sidewalks were just as lively as the architecture, conversing in their outrageous accents and making even more absurd gesticulations.

Ah yes, life as it should be.

Theodora shuddered as the thought of District 3 re-entered her conscience. She couldn't imagine how human beings could live in the _filth, _and how they could be so _ugly. _Why, in some of the pictures the Capitol citizens flaunted of the Districts to brag about their riches, she could even see the _ribs _of some of them! How undignified and offensive!

Her commute lasted a convenient twenty minutes, giving her just enough time to finish that podcast on baking three-tier cakes. She pulled up into the employee parking of the Laboratory, flipped off her aviator sunglasses, and pressed the button on the center console. Immediately, the roar of the engine ebbed away to a faint whine before ceasing to emit any sound at all. The radio turned off, her seat warmers reset, and her passenger side door flipped open like a mechanical chauffeur. She put one foot on the ground, then another, and rose out of her car and headed for the Laboratory.

The building was hauntingly sterile, devoid of any form of decoration, but still the walls were completely covered with the crazed drafts of the deranged little scientists that ran this place and elaborate blueprints. Cryopods lined the walls of the entrance hall, housing some poor folk selected from the Districts to be frozen indefinitely and then experimented upon.

She got to work at her station… the sink. Under any other circumstances, this job would be undignified, but _anything _involved with the Hunger Games was considered to be prestigious. It was the grandest spectacle known to mankind, after all. You had to know someone on the inside who knew someone on the inside who knew someone on the inside to land a job preparing for the Games at all.

She set to work, putting on her protective gloves and pulling an aspirator on over her head to rest the mask down on her neck. She didn't really need it, per se, but the entire Laboratory staff was required to wear one… in case of horrible, deadly emergency. Although, according to the cheery yellow sign posted across from Theodora on the wall, **THIS FACILITY HAS BEEN EMERGENCY FREE FOR 176 DAYS.**

As she scurried around, minding her own business and the like, the well-trained ears of a busybody perked up as she heard an approaching group of scientists sweeping down the hall. This was odd. She never usually saw anyone here since all the waste that needed disposing of was dropped off at the end of the workday.

"I'm telling you, Augusta, President Pollux is _not_ going to be happy about this," some male voice, squeaky enough to belong to a teenager, rang out. "Agatha was the best on our team."

"Oh, you know very well President Pollux doesn't give a damn about anyone in this place. As long as we find a replacement, _quick_, he won't even have to know about it." came the reply of Augusta Romaine, Head Gamemaker. Theodora straightened. If _she _was involved, this must be a very juicy bit of happenings.

"Yeah, but where are we gonna find a replacement? It's not like we can walk out on the street, grab someone by the arm and say '_great, you're a genetic scientist now'._" Someone shot back. This one was deep, gruff.

The trio rounded the corner, shooting Theodora a quick glance. She squeaked and hurriedly returned to her work, blowing a single strand of pea green hair out of her eyes. Their chatter stopped.

In her peripheral, she could see them exchange glances.  
She didn't like that.

"Theodora, right?" Augusta prompted.

"A-ah, yes ma'am," Theodora replied, whipping around to face the group of Gamemakers. They were a varied bunch. Augusta stood tall and gangly with her light pink hair twisted up in a high ponytail, a young ginger man that didn't look like a day over eighteen bounced on his heels, and an elderly gentlemen scowled through his unruly corona of aquamarine hair. They all had one thing in common, though… their eyes were trained on her.

"Theodora, how would you like a promotion?" the ginger kid asked.

Theodora blinked once. Twice. Three times. And then her face lit up like a puppy who just heard 'walk'.

"Are you kidding? I-I would love a promotion!" she exclaimed, clapping her gloved hands together. "It's about time I started moving up the ladder! I've been working for _too long! _Three years it's been!"

"How would you like to be promoted to an entire other field of work?" The elderly man added, raising a single pierced eyebrow.

_A… what?_

"An entire other field of work? What do you mean? You mean, like, cleaning the actual _mutation rooms _instead of the cryopods?" Theodora asked quietly.

"Something like that," Augusta replied, her tone darkening ominously.

And here she was, in the Muttations Laboratory. She wasn't cleaning chemicals, no, and she wasn't mopping floors either…

_She was staring into the sleeping face of a fifteen-foot-long sea creature. _

It was housed in a square plexiglass enclosure, filled with gallons of the cleanest see-through water she had ever laid eyes on. Its head was that of the face of a crocodile- she had seen a crocodile before in some of her brother's books- and its gargantuan jaws were lined with countless rows of teeth that bristled like arrow points. Its webbed feet laid out before it, beholding foot long claws that curved at the tips like powerful, natural scythes, and its scales protruded from its body so sharply they themselves appeared to be weapons. She placed a small, shaking hand to the cold surface of the glass, her breathing rattling in her chest. She dug in her pockets and pulled out her small aspirator and took a hit, allowing the air to rush back into her lungs.

Her hand wasn't even the size of its claw. Its head adorned eight sets of eyes, closed and sunken into its head, and tusks like a boar protruded from its maw among the conglomeration of teeth.

In her other hand, she held a small syringe filled with blood-colored liquid.

That she was supposed to inject into this… this _thing. _

She stood before a metal-runged ladder, fully clad in diver gear. She was equipped with many precautionary defensive plates, the Gamemakers had assured her, mostly just for her peace of mind. She was to climb the ladder, enter the tank, and find the chink in the muttation's armor near the base of its nape. It would be unmistakable, they assured her.

"W-what if it… w-wakes up?" she asked in a quiet, shaky voice. The tremble in her limbs had made it up to her vocal cords, apparently.

"It won't, it's under extremely heavy sedatives. If it does, though, we have certain protocols in place to protect you," Augusta's voice buzzed in her ear through her small comms device.

_Mind telling me what those are? _She willed to ask the question, but her voice failed her.

"You may begin the ascent now, Mrs. Calliope," the young man's voice tuned in next. Taking a deep breath, she raised one hand, tentatively wrapping it around a rung. Then her other hand. Then the first hand again. Second hand. First hand. Second hand. First.

And she was at the top. She extended a shaking foot across the plexiglass and sheepishly shifted her weight down. The transparency of the glass made it seem as if there was nothing there at all to support her and she was merely flying. Bile clawed up her throat, but she forced it down again.

"Sh-sh-sh-should I open thuh-the hatch now?" Theodora buzzed in. She was high above the three Gamemakers stationed down below her, so high up she couldn't even see them when she looked down.

"Yes, Mrs. Calliope, you should. Descend _carefully _into the water."

She reached a hand out to the hatch in the top of the enclosure. She made to free the latch, but her fingers were trembling so badly they lost their grip and fell to her side again. She waited almost an eternity for her heart to stop rattling painfully against her ribs and tried again, and this time she maintained her hold. She unlatched the hatch, closed her eyes, and descended into the water.

Her frantic breath clouded the scuba helmet placed smugly on her head. The water already made her slow, and the suit wasn't helping, as big and clunky as it was. It must have been internally heated or something, because now she was inside she saw a thermometer stuck to the very back corner reading ten degrees.

"Alright, you're halfway done already. Locate the chink in the armor," the elder informed her. Theodora shot back a futile nod, swimming over to the beast.

As she got closer, she could better inspect the animal's scales. They were that of vipers, undeniably sharp to the touch. She could now notice a raised ridge of spikes along its spine, too, that were battered back and forth by the circulation of the water. It looked as if it could detach these elevated, keen spines at high velocity... able to shoot them like porcupine quills.

She didn't want to look around and find any more weapons that could easily kill her. So she went to work.

As she scuttled over to the base of the monstrosity's neck, she could indeed see the aforementioned weak spot in the scales. It was "small", nearly the size of her poodle at home, flat on its neck. She readied the syringe.

"You have to do this quickly, Theodora," Augustus urged. "Disturbing the subject for longer than is necessary is to be avoided at all costs."

_Was that… a warning? _Theodora couldn't tell. Her brain was in a strange sense of stupor, utterly detached from what her hands were doing and the raging anxiety in her nerves. Maybe she was too terrified to process how terrified she really was.

The blood-red liquid looked more like dark brown now. It had congealed, too, forming clots along the sides of its container. Was it… _actual _blood?

She didn't care. The sooner she got done with this, the sooner she'd take an early leave and go home to her poodles and cry.

She took a breath and counted down from ten. _10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…_

_One! _

She screwed her eyes shut so tightly she saw yellow spots and plunged the thick syringe needle-first into the exposed flesh. She pushed it down, and the liquid was injected into the… monster.

She floated there, eyes closed, every muscle tensed, for a good ten seconds. She was sure... absolutely _positive _it would awaken and snap her in half.

But it didn't.

"Great work, Mrs. Calliope!" the Gamemakers cheered in tandem. Relief flooded her in waves as she began to swim upward toward the hatch.

She never made it.

The beast's eight eyes snapped open in perfect harmony, a deep growl rumbling in the depths of its throat. Its entire body shuddered as it rose to its two stubby feet, snapped its entire neck backward, and grabbed Theodora Calliope by her foot. In one fierce jerk, her leg was removed from her body in an explosion of warm blood and the heart-wrenching sound of many tendons snapping at once, torn quickly and effortlessly off like the wing of an insect. Theodora opened her mouth to scream but the sound died in her throat as a single chomp of its jaws severed her clean in half. Her torso and the remains of her legs floated down separately to the bottom of the tank, painting a horrible banner of crimson in its wake.

By the end of the night, the cheery yellow sign read **THIS FACILITY HAS BEEN EMERGENCY FREE FOR 0 DAYS.**

* * *

**A/N: As soon as I have a full District, I will begin writing the reapings! Sorry for yet another prologue!**


	4. D7: The Olive Tree

**DISTRICT SEVEN: THE OLIVE TREE**

* * *

**Bambi Hackett, 13**

It's almost Time.

I can tell by the way the sun's hanging. The sky's still a cheery shade of blue, mottled with an occasional cloud, but the hue of the sun is slightly bruised with a very _hint _of peach. Am I strange for noticing that? I can't tell.

I notice a lot of things.

For example, I noticed that the butcher's kids aren't outside playing in the yard this morning. They're almost always out (their permanent sunburns are evidence enough). That means one of two things; the butcher's ill or Polly is finally of Reaping age. I'm guessing it's the latter, since I saw Mr. Prangborn putting the mandatory Reaping decorations across the veranda earlier.

His wife, Calluna, hasn't been out to water her chrysanthemums, either. That's a tradition of hers on today… the Prangborns are very symbolic people. Chrysanthemums signify optimism, joy and long life. It seems ironic, mocking, even, to care for those on an evening like this.

There are little details like that everywhere. Despite the calliope music, the bright banners whipping tirelessly through the breeze… the paint, so heartlessly and gloomily smeared across the merchant shops, turned this District into a tapestry of every color under the sun. It screamed of happiness, childlike fascination, wonder… but the hearts of every unfortunate soul in this place were weighted down like rocks in the sea. You could see it in their necks, slumped mournfully into their clothes and away from the intent stares of Peacekeepers who listened carefully for words that even hinted discontent.

The illusion of glee was so impeccable that I once believed it. When I was younger, so young that Silas and I still lived with our mother, I remember climbing this very olive tree with my older brother at my side. I was six then and he was ten, too young for worrying about being drawn in the Reaping just yet. I had followed him up to the highest branch (if anyone knew we'd have our hides wrung), leaned out over the edge to survey the town, and take in a deep breath. District Seven was a riot of summer rain, burning sky, and sunsets that balanced upon the Earth's rim. It was a perfect day with a perfect temperature, warm drafts that caressed my face and blew my coal-colored curls behind me like a proud banner. The District below us was alight with activity, so much in so little space it almost made my head spin, and it had been the first time I had seen the City Centre from this angle and in such a way. It was so unlike the norm and so beautiful… I loved it.

So, understandably, I didn't understand the way Silas' brows furrowed in disgust.

"Look at them, Bamble," he had snarled under his breath. His voice was deep and etched with loathing, making him sound way older than ten. "Forcing us to parade around like it's the best day of the year."

"Isn't it?" I had asked, cocking my head to the side. Silas' gray, ashen eyes widened in surprise. "I mean, I've never seen the District look so… happy."

Silas had opened his mouth, blush seeping to his cheeks and illuminating the dust of freckles, but he had closed it just as quickly. He scooted further along the branch. I followed the pad of his index finger as he jutted it out to point to a woman in the crowd. We were up very high, but if I squinted, I could make out some definition to her features.

"Look at her face," he whispered. "Does she look very happy to you?"

I looked. Upon closer examination, he was right. The light of the centre didn't meet her eyes at all. Instead, she hugged her arms close to her chest and bustled by the rigid form of a Peacekeeper as quick as she could, staring at her feet with her lips pursed. She passed by a shopkeep- the one that ran the kiosk that occasionally sold books the government _approved _for sale- whose eyes were rimmed with the telltale sheen of tears as she stared at the banner that declared, **HAPPY HUNGER GAMES! **However, as soon as she felt the burn of the Peacekeeper's gaze in her back, she quickly dabbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

I was stunned into shocked silence. The gears in my six-year-old brain were spinning so quickly there was no time to form a coherent sentence. If the District looked so happy, why weren't the people? I had turned to Silas then, a billion questions on my tongue that burst forth like a spooked flock of birds, but my brother said no more. Looking back on it, he was probably scared he'd get in trouble with mother if he said much else. He rose a finger to his lips, dug into his pockets, and revealed a stash of clandestine, glittering candies. I dug in, but that started a wave of curiosity that was never quite pacified.

Since then, I've been more observant. Too observant, people say behind my back. They say that a thirteen-year-old has no business noticing and knowing all that I do. That is, except for Pad. He says that questioning the nature of the things around me, never being complacent with all that I know, might come down to life or death one day.

And hell, little did I know it…

My grandpa was right.

* * *

**Silas Hackett,17**

"Silas… if you had to pick between Shaundra, Tangela, or Holly-"

"Ooo-kay, that's enough, none of that!"

"But _man-"_

Yeah, it was strange to see three teenage kids roaming the City Centre. _Ever. _Only adults or a singular child ever visited the place and it was always with a shopping list. The majority of us who lived in District Seven didn't have enough money to shop here regularly- or, for some of us, at all- and so it was pretty much assumed that if a group of 'teen ruffians' were spotted here together, they were looking to steal. Most of the time, this notion was right.

Today was one of those days that was an exception to stereotype. This particular portion of the Centre was known to us ruffians as the Valley. It was a shadowy (and, quite frankly, dodgy) alley stationed between the squat apothecary's station and the motor repair shop for the Peacekeepers' vehicles. It was pretty much forgotten, used only as dumping space for the richer folks of Seven, and too dreary for most merchants to set foot in… so, no insufferable Reaping decorations. It was the perfect spot to go if you wanted some time out of the house and didn't want the Games shoved in your face earlier than need be.

Madrone, Fir and I were leaning up against the left wall of the Valley, our voices a seethed whisper. This was a great place to hide out until you spoke too loud and some snooty merchant tattled to a Peacekeeper about it. The punishment for it was a slap on the wrist- you were banned from the Centre for a week- but who cares? Anyone was only here on Reaping day.

"Yeah, Silas doesn't wanna talk about Holly since he's still mooning after her," Fir grinned. "I see you watching her leave the school every day."

I shoved Fir with my shoulder and he went sprawling into the cushion of a heap of garbage. Madrone barked out a fit of laughter as Fir emerged from the refuse, his tufts of blonde hair sticky with some unthinkable secretion.

"Shit!" he growled.

"What? Afraid to get your face scuffed up?" I teased, ignoring Madrone's wheezes of laughter to my side. The man sounded like he was choking himself. _Wasn't even that funny. _

"This was supposed to be my Reaping outfit."

Madrone and I stopped laughing. One quick look in his face meant he wasn't kidding. He was only wearing a simple shirt and some off-white slacks, but knowing his family, that was the best he had to wear. Pad sometimes lent his family small loans when they really needed it, and they really needed it damn near perpetually.

"I'm sorry, let me help you clean that up," I murmured, pulling a napkin from my pocket (Pad said it's always best to leave the house prepared for everything). It wasn't too much damage, but there was a big line of scuff along the front of his left slack that didn't look like it was coming off.

He let me help him get the muck off, too. Normally Fir would've pushed me away, said something snarky and done it on his own, but this was Reaping day. As much as we tried to play it off, _all _our nerves were fried.

"At least I won't look like a daddy's boy anymore," he laughed. Madrone and I joined in.

After everything that was going to come off did, I looked up at the sky. The sun was about to sink, which meant I had an hour at best before it was time for… time for That.

"It's been fun, but I have to go make sure Bambi's ready," I called back. I heard Madrone and Fir groan, but we quickly exchanged farewells and headed our separate ways.

I jogged out of the Valley, took a sharp turn on my heel, and swept past the haphazard arrangement of kiosks toward the soaring arch marking the exit toward the city. I could already see arrangements being made as I passed… a squadron of Peacekeepers had been spared to flank the small platform that was being erected in the Centre. Velvet rope was being rolled out to sort out the separate age groups, genders, and then a standing area for the parents and the too-young-to-be-eligible siblings.

When the Peacekeepers turned their backs to me, I flipped them The Bird.

The majority of Seven was engulfed by forests of thick, sturdy trees and occasionally a small stream. Logging operations were the main source of labor here, and everywhere you looked, you saw orange spray paint dripping down trees, marking them for the cut. Old loggers' tents dotted the landscape like raggedy, old flowers. Carts were loaded with soaring trunks, ready to be rolled off to the Capitol in exchange for meager rations.

Most of the workforce were loggers, but a minority were skilled carpenters. They crafted a wide variety of things, ranging from houses to little trinkets that were sold to Capitol citizens. Luckily for the District, most of these carpenters could be persuaded or bribed into crafting things for you, such as tables or cabinets for half of what a merchant would sell it to you for.

After a good ten minutes of walking, I arrived at Pad's house. It wasn't much, just a small cabin wedged in the forest, but it was home. Ever since mom fell off the wagon with alcohol after dad's death, Bambi and I lived with our grandfather.

I pushed through the threshold. Right away, I could tell the post-Reaping supper was boiling over the fire in the stone fireplace. I took a minute to appreciate the smell.

And then it was over.

"Silas, close the door, you're gonna let the bugs in."

"Sorry, Pad!"

I gently shut the door behind me. Pad was sitting in our ten-year-old couch, a book in his hand, forehead creasing in concentration. He flipped the page, read it silently for a moment, and then closed it, looking up to me.

"You only have an hour before the Reaping. Best get dressed now."

"Sure thing. What's cooking?"

"Rabbit stew."

"Delicious."

"And tell your sister to hurry up and get dressed or she isn't getting any."

"Got it."

Pad nodded, pacified, before returning to his book. I chanced a glance at the top of the page, checking for a title, but to no avail.

I headed off deeper into the cabin. Bambi and I had adjacent rooms while Pad slept on the other side of the house. Said we kept him up with our snoring, but we knew he wanted us to have the better insulated half of the cabin to sleep in.

I knocked on my sister's door. "Bamble? Time to get dressed!"

No reply. _I guess she's working on something._ So I moved on, swinging into my room.

My room was simple, just like the rest of the house. It had the bare necessities and the bare necessities only… a bed, a nightstand, a mirror, and a dresser. My Reaping outfit- a short-sleeved yellow button-up shirt, a light brown pair of slacks, and dark work boots- is laid out on top of my mattress. I quickly throw them on, tucking my slacks into my boots and adjusting my collar in the mirror, before carting my hands through my brown hair in a futile attempt to brush it out.

I made my bed (if I didn't, Pad would get onto me about it later, Reaping day or not), straightened the picture of Bambi and I as kids on my wall and went back out into the hallway.

"You ready yet?" I murmured through Bambi's door. No answer.

_I swear she's either going deaf or coming down with a case of selective hearing. _

With a single knock, I pushed into her room.

Bambi was nowhere to be found and her window was gaping open.

_Shit. _

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:00. We were rapidly running out of time.

I was about to close the door to her room when a piece of opened parchment on Bambi's bed caught my eye. I picked it up and examined it, reading quickly.

_Silas,_

_you know where to find me. _

_-Bamble_

It occured to me that I did. She was always in the same spot every Reaping… the old olive tree. We used to go there together, but when I got too big to fit on the books of the branches, I stopped coming. She hadn't, though.

She felt an attraction to the place I never understood.

"What's going on in there, Silas? How long does it take you to pull on some clothes?" Pad yelled. I winced.

"Sorry, grandpa! I'm just cleaning up before I head out!"

"You better hurry," he grumbled.

I glanced at the clock once more and then slid out Bamble's open window, sliding it closed behind me.

The olive tree wasn't too far from home. I arrived in a few minutes, and sure enough, there Bambi was, lying down across the branch lowest to the ground. She was already in her Reaping clothes, thank goodness, a light green frock that blended in with the leaves, a pink belt, and pink mary janes. She didn't notice me approaching and just kept staring down at her feet, her elbows on her knees.

"Hey, Bamble, you okay?"

She jumped, turning her head to face me. She relaxed when she saw it was just me.

"Absolutely not, but to be expected," she sighed in reply, swinging off the branch. She staggered when her feet hit the ground. "You coming to get me to head over?"

"Yeah, unfortunately."

"Does Pad know I'm here?"

"Nope, didn't tell him."

"Good."

She walked over to my side. If we were younger, she would've taken my work-rough hands, but instead she just opted for comfortable silence at a distance as we trudged back home. Her eyes were uncharacteristically downcast, devoid of their usual curious sparkle.

"You're gonna be fine," I assured her. "Your name's only in there twice."

"But twice is enough, isn't it? Twelve-year-olds get picked and they're in there only _once_."

She got me there.

We arrived home not long after that. I raised the window slowly as to not make any noise and she swung in, me in tow. Less gracefully.

"Dammit!" I yelled as my head hit the windowsill with a resounding _thud. _

Bambi laughed.

"Glad to know you think my pain is funny," but I was grinning, too.

"We're ready, Pad!" Bambi called. We heard a grunt in reply.

We went into the living room. Pad rose from his chair and lumbered over to us, missing each of us on the forehead.

"You're both going to be okay," he assured us in a husky voice. "When we get back, I have a nice dinner prepared."

"Thank you," we said in tandem.

But it was half-hearted.

Because no one can truly assure us of anything on a day like today.

* * *

**I'm soo sorry this chapter took so long to put out! I must've rewritten it about five times, yikes. **

**The way Reapings will work with this SYOT is that I won't acknowledge them until the Recap during training. That way you guys won't have to sit through twelve boring Reapings, lol! **

**Thank you for reading and please leave a review telling me what you liked and disliked about this chapter so I can improve for the next one!**


	5. D4: Remarkability

**DISTRICT FOUR: REMARKABILITY**

* * *

**Sebastian "Seb" Vryce, 18**

District Four is kinda an amalgamation of everywhere.

The style of our architecture is mostly borrowed from our neighboring Districts; if you've had the privilege of seeing the other residential areas of Panem, you'd notice the influence at once. We borrowed the white, soaring pillars from the decadence of District One, the sprawling verandas from District Seven, and the compactness of District Twelve. You can say we borrowed elements of culture, too. We borrowed the Academy from District Two, the tight-knit compassion from District Eleven, and the contented complacency from District Five.

I don't know if we also borrowed the thieving from somewhere, but I wouldn't be surprised. That being said, petty thievery isn't exactly the most honorable occupation, but it sure as hell pays the bills. Specifically my bills.

My fingers drum against my leg as I stroll the alleys snaking behind the more wealthy sector of Four. The houses here are pretty well protected by the local Peacekeepers, but when you've been stealing for as long as I have, that's child's play. I've mastered the art of scouting through the neighborhood, comfortable in my knowledge of how to avoid every piece of surveillance equipment, every 'Keeper, every second of being stranded out in the open. It's only a challenge to choose which house will be the most unprotected, the most vulnerable to a street urchin with too much time on his hands to think about anything _other _than great, creative ways to sneak into places he doesn't belong.

Since it's Reaping day, there aren't too many people out to stare at me suspiciously. Most people are inside their homes, cooking breakfast 'n crap, consoling their kids about how 'your name isn't in there too many times, you should be fine'. Am I desensitized to the Games? No. It's just a lot easier to deny the risk before you're standing in a mob of kids your age, fearfully watching the travesty of a District escort wobble onstage in outrageous heels and an off-center wig.

There's a woman who lives in a re-refurbished beach house who's usually a good victim. She never married and never had kids, so she's a single decrepit lady in a house big enough for a family of seven. As long as I was apt enough not to pick the room she was in, I could sneak around undetected and rob her blind. Every time. However, she always invited a lot of friends over for the Reaping… said it was easier to bear with other people around… 'even though I don't have kids, I still don't like watching them shipped off to die every year'. So, yeah, no go on her today.

Maybe Mr. Malawi? He's an occupational teacher at the school, phenomenal at fishing, but otherwise pretty challenged. He claims to have "cleithrophobia", a long fancy word for fear of being enclosed; therefore, he always has his windows open. Horrendous practice when it rained, even worse when I was in the neighborhood. He's a little more difficult than the old lady since he can't stand being in the same spot for over a few seconds, but his blaring music helped to muffle feet.

So many choices, so little time. I treated myself to oversleeping this morning, my own form of a Reaping gift… that being said, it was almost time to head over. I had about forty minutes to get this done. More than enough time, but deadlines always made me a bit antsy.

As I walk, I make sure to make myself look like I belong. My eyes remain forward as I make my way deeper into the patch of houses, although my peripheral diligently documents every home I pass. The few people that pass don't pay me any special attention, but they hush their voices and walk a tad faster. Understandable. I'd bet a large amount of those people are cussing out the Capitol, and you can never tell who's gonna run to the Keepers and blab for money. However, one conversation makes my ears perk.

"So, what're you wearing for the Reaping?"

"Dunno. Probably gonna ask my mom to borrow her bridesmaid dress."

"Good idea. Wanna catch the eye of Jules with that neckline, huh?"

"No, shut up!"

"Don't think I will."

Then there's the sound of impact.

I turn to chase the sound of their voices with my eyes. They're two girls, probably my age, and admittedly very pretty. Whoever this Jules dude is, I'd be lucky to see that neckline.

They're gone, though, turning the corner and entering the backyard of a particularly imposing mansion. It stands tall, wide and proud, cutting through the torrent of gray storm clouds. The roof sharpens into a steeple, grandiose and boastful. These features tell me two things… one, lots of money. Two, lots of complacency.

My seasoned green eyes watch them enter. They use the back door, announcing to someone further inside that they're home, and then close it. The window is translucent, but their shadows disappear from the threshold too quickly for them to have taken the time to lock it.

Perfect.

I backtrack a bit under the pretense of pretending I dropped something, looking around wildly to sell it. As I approach the fencing, I linger just outside the window's view, chancing quick glances inside. There are no shadows in the gargantuan room that are anywhere near human. I see the outline of a spiral staircase leading up to the multiple upper floors, and the bar of a kitchenette off to the left. Otherwise, no place of entry or exit, and the door's metal edges are clear of rust. Hopefully, that means it won't behold a thief's worst enemy… creaking hinges.

I give it a second before reaching out to grab the knob. I turn it agonizingly slowly, pushing it open even slower. Thankfully, it was almost inaudible, and my initial assessment was correct. There's no one in the room, and by the muffled thuds of footfalls above me, it sounds like the inhabitants are up on the third floor. I'll have to move fast, but not so fast to alert anyone.

So I do. I crouch, leisurely crossing the scuffed tiled floors and heading toward the fireplace in the center of the back wall. The chrome mantle hosts a large stack of pristine, folded clothing. Shirts, pants, vests, you name it. Nothing feminine though, so I doubt I'll be seeing a reappearance of the girl looking for her mom's bridesmaid dress.

If I'm gonna be looting for money or the like, I might as well take a Reaping outfit. When you live on the streets, you don't exactly have the luxury of a washing bucket or nice, dressy clothes. My greasy ebony hair and rumpled cloth 'ensemble' should be enough evidence of that.

I reach up on the balls of my feet, gently taking off a stack of clothes. Many choices tempt me, like the suave blue tux or the faux leather jacket, but I can't take anything that will be sorely missed. A crime is best committed in such a manner that when it's noticed, you're _really _too far gone.

Finally, near the end of the array, I spot something suitable. It's a green, silken polo. Nowhere near the elegance of anything else, but it looks comfortable and strangely attractive. Way better than the chafe of what I'm wearing now.

I place it gently on the floor, making sure to replace every discarded garment exactly where it came from. Then I turn my gaze to the stack of pants; I unceremoniously select a pair of black jeans. I reach down and pick up my shirt, slinging both of my selections over my arm and sneaking over to the coffee table off to the side. It's stationed before the squat couch, proud despite its regularity. On it, however, is stationed a small clam jewelry box. I carefully lift the lid.

Jackpot. Glittering up at me are endless pearls, both opalescent and black, gold chains, and diamond earrings. Whatever these people do, they rake in a ton of money. Perhaps they're trainers? No. If they were, I'd have seen their children at the Academy sessions by now.

Pondering aside, I'm a little intimidated by the gold mine in front of me. I could take it all, dart out of here, and never have to thieve again… but if I'd been robbed of this many treasures, I'd be hellbent on finding whoever did the deed.

My drooling is cut short. My head whips toward the stairs when I begin to hear voices filtering down the stairwell, the words permeating through the living space like the call of a canary in a coal mine.

"_...and then, Mikaia, he slapped her!"_

I can feel my heartbeat spring in pace everywhere… the tips of my toes, in my ears, my throat. I grab blindly into the box, gently closed the lid, and scurry across the floor. I grab a pair of shoes by their intertwined laces, fashion be damned, and just as cautiously opened the door, bolting out of there with barely any time to spare. As I fled across the lawn, obscured from the window by the brick walls, I heard the girls' voices grow to a crescendo. If I had to guess, they were halfway across the living room by now.

As soon as I was a safe distance away, the thud of my heartbeat was replaced with the cold, refreshing rush of adrenaline. Yet another successful heist to Sebastian Vryce's roster!

I collapse against the alleyway's wall, sliding down until I was on the floor. I tilt my head back, still fighting to steady my breath, but grinning all the same. So, I didn't get much money, but I did come away with something, and the Peacekeepers/rich people didn't catch me and wring my neck. Victory in my book.

When all the elevated heart rate and breathing return to their natural andante, I chance a look at what I had blindly ripped from the jewelry clam. It's not diamonds or gold, much to my chagrin, but it's interesting in its own right. A dog tag necklace lays across my palm, and upon closer inspection, it appears to made of a yellowish-ivory substance, hard and unbending. Bone.

What type of bone? I don't know. However, it must be pretty big to be made into something of this caliber. Perhaps a large fish. A whale, most likely.

I stand up and strip myself of my clothes. I was out in the open, but no one was around here. I pull the shirt over my head and then struggle into the jeans. The jeans are a tad tight and the shirt exposes a sliver of my stomach when I raise my arms, but thieves can't be choosers.

The shoes I snagged were plain brown work boots and a bit harder to get on. Either my feet are huge, or whoever's boots these were had extremely small feet. After a few seconds of struggling, I fit my heels in all the same. They pinch in the toes, but it's a small price to pay.

I stand still for a moment to steady my breathing (yet again) after the struggle. My hand carts lazily through my hair, breaking through tangles and primping the wavy strands to the best of its ability. If I'm gonna rush off to die in a gladiator-esque fashion, might as well look good doing it.

The thought wipes any remnant of a smile from the corners of my lips. Today was the day, wasn't it? For some reason, it didn't sink in until now.

My body aches from an unfathomable amount of scars and wounds from my rigorous training at the Academy. My choice, so complete and full in its resolve, begins to falter.

Sure, District Four is a hellhole with its omnipresent reek of dead fish and salt, but it was… home? The closest thing to home, anyway. I was never blessed with the comfort of a mother's arms, and the time with my father was brief, but even then I never felt like I was where I belonged. The streets are cold and merciless and I've seen countless souls succumb to its icy claws of death… but it was familiar. Manageable, even, with the right skills and mindset. But the arena? Who knows what I'll be getting into then? Not everything can be solved with quick feet and the ability to judge if a floorboard is loose. If I die, I'll have lived an unremarkable life, lost to the sands of time and District Four's decay. Tossed out to the sea, even, to be devoured by the creatures who feast on unexceptional flesh.

But then I remember the Victor's Village. Fashioned on the only hill in Four, it shone down on the turmoil of the commonplace slums. The buildings, so elegant and fashioned like Capitol, were a sign of remarkability. Anyone who graced these houses had escaped the grip of their District, of the cruel Peacekeepers, of the Game designed to tear you down.

It was the ultimate honor, the ultimate call, and the only place that I could ever call home.

So I straightened the collar of my shirt, laced my boots, and trudged on toward the city center, ready to say those four words that would change my life.

* * *

**Maeve Blackwater, 16**

Rosé and I walked side-by-side down the market sector of District Four, our pockets laden with shiny gold coins. Our father always gave us an allowance on Reaping day, allowing us to buy something from the stalls as a gift. We didn't have much money, but it was customary to go all out today. You know, in case we died.

My sister's wide brown eyes flitted from stall to stall. This entire place was sensory overload. Spices, herbs, and meats wafted together and joined in a conglomeration of beautiful scents, not to mention the many fragrances of the homemade perfumes and colognes that sold for copious amounts of money in Four. The brightly colored banners slung proudly over kiosks, stalls, and their tchotchkes demanded attention everywhere you looked. A cacophony of voices, blending together to build a soundscape of every tone and accent, permeated through the place. Needless to say, it was almost impossible to hear my sister when she spoke up spritely.

"Hey Maeve, I think I wanna check out the clothes section this time!" she yelled. I cocked an eyebrow.

"You sure? You don't want, like, a novelty or something?" I replied, ducking under the flailing arms of a tall man as he animatedly gestured toward a stall.

"Yeah. I need new Reaping clothes."

"Oh."

It's true. Rosé had grown like a weed this past year or so. Dad and I were beginning to worry that we might need to buy her an entire new wardrobe, something we absolutely could not afford. But if she was able to forget what they were for, Rosé could wear her Reaping clothes casually, and that's one less shopping trip for us.

So I took her hand and led her deeper into the tumult. There was no signage anywhere, so a newcomer would be hard-pressed to find their way around. However, I had been here so many times I could navigate this place with my eyes closed.

A few vendors wave at me as I pass. A one-eyed lady named Pasha leans forward over her wooden stand and grabs a fistful of my shirt. I raise my arms defensively, but when I see it's only her, I erupt in laughter.

"Pasha! Where've you been? Didn't see you here last year!"

"Yeah," the woman croaked. "Husband and I had a run in with the Peacekeepers."

"Shit, what happened?"

"They found out some of our items were a little south of legal. It's alright though, here I am I am to pester you!" she barked out a laugh so raspy I fought back a cringe.

"Guess so! Hey, have you met Rosé?" Rosé's eyes shot to me and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, but the damage had been done.

"Don't think I have. Ain't she your sister?"

"Yeah." I put my hands on her shoulders and pull her closer to me. Pasha flashes us a yellow grin.

"How about that? She looks like you, Maeve."

"You think so?" I hear that a lot, but I don't see the resemblance. She might have my nose but I don't think anything about us looks alike past that. Her lips are fuller than mine, her eyelashes curl upward, and her body is short and wide. I'm tall and thin with curves, rowdy curls, and slightly slanted eyes.

"Hell yeah! Say, you guys want something? On the house."

Rosé's eyes light up. She bounds closer to the woman's wares, scanning them diligently. They're mostly shark and sheepshead teeth, but a few cool looking rocks are scattered far and few. Predictably, she picks up a purple mass that glitters in the sparse sunlight.

"What's this?"

Pasha grins once again. She puts her red hair behind her ear and takes a good, close look at it.

"That's an amethyst," she explained proudly. "It's a precious gem. Goes for a lot of money in the hoity-toity Districts like One and Two, but no one here has that kinda money… except for the merchants, maybe."

"Where'd you find that? In the ocean?" I stooped down to take a closer look. The stone was encased in a hard back of stone, but the points that jutted forth were an elegant, soulful lilac. I didn't have a hard time believing this would go for a lot of money anywhere else.

"Nah, the ex-husband got it for me. He had a lot of money, shame he caught me with Seamus. Coulda still been a rich woman," she sighed. "Now I got no use for it. Glad you guys'll get some joy outta it."

Rosé pocketed the stone. Pasha reached behind her ear and let her curls fall in front of her bad eye once more.

"Thank you," I said. Another soul-wrenching laugh.

"Don't mention it. Just don't tell anybody, don't want a bunch of beggars demanding free precious rocks."

"Gotcha," Rosé replied. Her face, usually closed-off and neutral, erupts in the light of her grin.

That's what's great about District Four. The people here, so full of life and stories and good, can bring anyone up from the brink of sadness. Dad's a fisherman, constantly sailing across the roiling expanse of the ocean, and his crew comes over sometimes to hang out at our house. They always bring stories of grandeur, the braving of the great unknown, and harrowing adventures rarely crossed by man. Now, how accurate these stories are, I don't know, but it's always fun to listen to them.

Everyone has a story, that much I know. Some people will tell it freely, some people need a little coaxing, and some still may take years to open up at all. However, if you play your cards right, you're always rewarded with a series of escapades that make you grin, cry, or fawn. It's truly remarkable.

Because of that, I've taken it upon myself to be a confidant for the people I meet. Known by all to be an open ear, someone to hear the things you have to say and keep them to herself.

That's why as we pass further into the market, more and more people call my name and stop to chat. Rosé begins to get annoyed, tugging at my sleeve and dragging me further along, and eventually, my conversations dwindle to banter then small talk then just little hellos and waves.

We finally arrive at the clothing brokers. There's only two, an old man and his son. They're both shaggy-haired with tanned, scarred skin and long fingers. It's common knowledge that the man's wife and the kid's mother passed last year from a nasty bit of pneumonia in the winter. They've kept her business up in her place and they do a remarkable job.

"Hey there, Mr. Kork!"

Both of the Korks turn their heads at once, waving at us as we approach. They abandon their station to walk over to meet us halfway.

"Miss Blackwater! And who's this?" the son questions.

"This is my sister, Rosé."

"A pleasure to meet you, Rosé, my name's Scrod," says the father. Rosé giggles at the name.

"Yeah, it's funny, isn't it? I don't know what my parents were thinking," he laughs. "This is my son, Mahseer."

Mahseer shakes Rosé's hand. He's the quieter of the two, but he's still very nice.

"Well, Blackwaters, what can we do for you?" Scrod asks, wringing his hands. "We're about to close up shop, though, so we have to hurry."

"We're looking for some nice clothes."

"Ah, we got plenty of those," Mahseer pipes up. "Certain color?"

"Red," Rosé answers. Mahseer nods. He disappears behind the counter and returns with a red, frilly frock. He holds it up to my sister's tiny form. "This'll fit. Do you like it?"

My sister nods. She isn't particularly picky about clothes.

"Then let's go pick out some shoes." Mahseer leads her over to the array of formal shoes, and they begin talking quietly amongst themselves.

I turn to Scrod. "How're you holding up?"  
The old man bites his lip. "It's hard, but every day _is _a bit easier. I'm on the way up and I think the kid is too."

"That's good. Is business alright?"  
"Business is great! Everyone came flocking as soon as we opened up again. We're not nearly as good as Marjorie at sewing but we'll get there. Eventually."

"I have no doubt. If you ever need help, you know where to find me."

"Thanks for the offer, but we're okay, really. We don't need charity."

Charity? It isn't charity. But before I can open my mouth to tell him otherwise, my sister and Scrod's son are back. Rosé is fitted in black mary janes and has a big, bright bow in her hair. She's cute and she knows it.

"How much do I owe you?" I reach into my pockets to fish out my coins.

"That'll be ten dollars," Mahseer informs me. I place the money into his open palm.

"Wish we could stay longer, but we have to go," I told the shopkeepers. "Lots of stuff to do before tonight."  
"Understood," Scrod nods. "It was great seeing you again, Maeve."

"And you too."

And then we're off, headed back the way we came. My sister is certainly in a much better mood now than she was when she woke up this morning. She's thirteen now, no tesserae, but she was more worried for me than for herself. She's clutching Pasha's amethyst in her hand and holding the hangar for her dress in the other, wearing a contented smile.

I haven't told her yet about volunteering. My Dad and I worked very hard to conceal my training at the Academy from her, always disguising it as errands or hanging out with friends. It's not that we don't think she can handle it, we just didn't want her to worry about it.

Right now, we live in a hovel… a houseboat that has definitely seen better days, battered along a rotting dock. When I get back, we'll be in a _real _house, we'll be able to afford things we don't need all year instead of one day, and best of all, it won't be just us.

Everyone will share in the spoils.

And that's remarkable.

* * *

**I am SO sorry for how late this was! I went on an unannounced vacation. **

**I love to hear from you guys! Who was your favorite? Anything you liked? Disliked? **

**Thanks for reading, and I promise the next chapter will be out much sooner.**


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